


«Ride Home»

by Abyssiniana



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: American Keith (Voltron), First Meeting, Fluff, Japanese Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Moving In Together, SHEITH - Freeform, Sheith Bouquet, Sheith Flower Exchange, Tattoo AU, implied engagement, implied marriage, mentions of Shallura - Freeform, open canvas!Keith, soft, tattoo artist!Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssiniana/pseuds/Abyssiniana
Summary: Purple Ranunculus, meaning “You are radiant”.A gift fordork-senfor theSheith Flower Exchangebased off the song"Ride Home"by Ben&Ben__«Before, he would travel to the Arizona desert to pick up Keith, or to stay over at his boyfriend’s house for the weekend. This time, he thought, looking over his shoulder to the back seat, where a gym bag filled with clothing items and a backpack with personal possessions had been tossed, he was going home.»





	«Ride Home»

Prosthetic fingers drummed on the leather cover of the wheel with no rhythm in particular. A familiar song on the radio filled the car with a pleasant harmony, but Shiro’s ears were deaf to anything but his own thoughts, the mechanized movement of reaching for the gearshift barely processed by the Japanese man. Ahead of him, miles of deserted highway expanded into sandy canyons and red dunes; this was a trip he had done before, countless times, but gravity seemed to be weighing harder on him, twisting his belly into the complex pattern of boating knots.

 

Before, he would travel to the Arizona desert to pick up Keith, or to stay over at his boyfriend’s house for the weekend.  _ This time _ , he thought, looking over his shoulder to the back seat, where a gym bag filled with clothing items and a backpack with personal possessions had been tossed,  _ he was going home. _

 

~*~

“Hey there, buddy! Looking to get inked?”

 

Shiro glanced up from his sketchbook to salute the boy who had entered his tattoo parlor, apparently started by the bell attached to the door. Under the purple neon sign that read “ _ Black Lion Ink _ ,” a young man with the full  _ bad boy™  _ attire crossed his arms over his chest, onyx-colored hair styled in a mullet and indigo eyes piercing through Shiro with the intensity of a whole galaxy. His nose was rather perky, sprinkled with nearly missable freckles, the angle of his jaw sharp, peachy lips that suffered from obsessive-compulsive biting pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t very tall and seemed rather thin under a red leather jacket and skinny black jeans with decorative silver chains, but his attitude suggested he had a foot heavy enough to kick any condescending bastard to the opposite corner of the room.

 

Small but angry.  _ Cute _ .

 

“Yeah, I guess,” was the response, as the potential canvas walked to the counter, eyes darting to the several frames of artwork signed by the Japanese man, exposed on the walls of the studio. He whistled and Shiro smiled. “You’re Shiro...? I uh… I’m Keith. I heard about your work from a friend.”

 

“Yep, that’d be me.” Absentmindedly, the tattoo artist ran his fingers through his bleached white forelock, pushing it back to blend in with the black strands before it stubbornly flopped back to his forehead. It wasn’t uncommon for former clients or fellow colleagues to put in a good word for Shiro’s work, be it vocally or via social media; he specialized in Japanese traditional, though he could pull off mostly any style with flawless technique and extreme precision. He wasn’t cocky, but he was confident in a healthy measure, and proud of his hard-won reputation. “What were you looking to get?”

 

“Don’t know, really. Can I see that?” He pointed at the portfolio that had been left open on a random page by the last curious customer; and the eldest noted the fingerless carbon fiber biker gloves Keith wore; stylish.

 

“Go on ahead.” 

 

The dossier was promptly presented to the boy, who flipped through the processes of old, new, discarded, and formerly executed tattoo designs. Those that had been inked already were accompanied by photographs of the final result upon the skin and written reviews of their bearers regarding Shiro’s performance and care.

 

While Keith took his time to look over Shiro’s work, the latter seized the chance to examine him from a closer distance this time. He had very beautiful skin, dreamy, the perfect white canvas for any artist’s masterpiece. Clearly, this boy was no ink virgin, as the bursts of American traditional bright red and bold lines peeked through the collar of his shirt suggested. He must have more tattoos somewhere too; guessing from experience, those who got chest pieces had begun elsewhere, in less painful areas. Maybe the arms? The thought of asking his client to remove his jacket and T-shirt was suddenly charged with an erotic connotation that was better left away from his work hours, so he refrained.

 

“This one is neat,” he heard him say, after a silent while. “Can I get this?”

 

The artist chuckled fondly at the memory of the drawing he had specially made at the request of Allura’s dad. His first big project with over thirty redesigns and chronic back pain, resumed in hours of blood, sweat and tears, and a goddamned  _ stunning _ backpiece. It could’ve been a disaster, but Alfor trusted him, from the beginning to the end of it. That red lion held a very dear meaning and the way he saw it, no one else would be fitting for that design but the sweet man who had welcomed Shiro into his small family as a son, even after him and Allura broke up back in senior year of college.

 

“Why that one?” he questioned, platinum colored eyes locking with the client’s.

 

“No reason. I like it.” a shrug. To that, Shiro held back and eyeroll and a sigh. Oh. One of  _ these _ . What a disappointment.

 

“It goes against my policy to tattoo designs that are meaningless to the canvas.” he explained, with the utmost seriousness and professionalism of a lawyer. Keith didn’t seem too pleased, eyebrow raising in bitter assumption.

 

“You don’t know me.”

 

“But I will, once I figure what to tattoo on you.”

 

“I can just go elsewhere to get this done.” Keith snapped, open palms upon the marble of the counter as he measured the other with his eyes. “You’re pretty full of yourself, you kn--”

 

“You can leave, and you’re within your right to, but I don’t see you walking away.” Shiro smirked at his own remark, taking some sweet satisfaction in how the young boy glared at him with a pursed pout, boot tapping on the linoleum floor of the studio with childish impudence. After dragging the silence for long enough to savour what was already his victory, Shiro proceeded, “Look, Keith, I would love to tattoo you; I just want to make sure you won’t look at my work five, ten years from now and regret having it on your body. We can figure out a design for you, perhaps over coffee? I’m taking a break soon.”

 

There were long moments of ponderation, Keith’s face twisting as he mentally evaluated the possible outcomes of this situation (either that or he was remembering the first time he licked a lemon), and finally settled for an answer.

 

“... Fair enough,” that corner smile might have caused Shiro’s heart to skip a beat. “But you’re paying.”

  
  


~*~

 

Shiro parked next to a motorbike that had definitely seen better days, despite being loved enough that the owner refused to give up on the rusty pipes or poorly executed paint job. After turning the key in the ignition to cease the roaring of the powerful engine of his car, Shiro exited the vehicle to be greeted by the lean form of Keith Kogane leaning against the doorframe, up on the porch.

 

“Took you long enough.”

 

“Sorry, I was thrilled by the ever shifting landscape of the desert. I’m almost sure the single cactus near the road moved an inch to the left since last time I passed by, I swear.” there was heatless sarcasm in Shiro’s reply, but a smile on his face, as he picked up the luggage from the backseat. He walked to the entrance of the house, the wooden steps creaking under his boot, stopping mere inches in front of the smaller man in silent expectation, the bags dropped to his feet. He was about a head taller than Keith and had to look down at him, head tilting to the side. “Missed me much, is that it?”

 

“Hm. You know it,” Keith moved to cup Shiro’s jaw. The Japanese man couldn’t help but to smile at the tattoos that covered both of those hands, the first pieces that he had had the privilege to tattoo on this man two years ago: large twin purple ranunculus flowers, blooming on each dorsum. Keith’s nails carded across the identical designs that Shiro had recently gotten on both shaved sides of his head, pulling them closer to lean foreheads.

 

_ Ranunculus. _ Too gorgeous to be real, often present in wedding bouquets in their majestic, exquisite rose-like blossoms, layer upon layer of radiant beauty. That was Keith for Shiro, and Shiro for Keith. Their lips met halfway, in the stamen of their passion, arms engulfing them in the eternal petals of commitment.

 

_ Shiro was home. _


End file.
